The Dark Season Saga- the Final Harvest

by Yehya H Safwat

  Then he added as glowered to the stony floor of the roof, “You have no idea how much I tremble when I think of the consequences of what I have done. I am risking everything to put our city out of harm’s way. You must understand that. The Chain Lords needs to see my stand clearly, or else...”

  Acar glared and turned to him. “My lord,” he said, and took his leave.

  I knew a thing or two about secrets, veils, and curtains. That soldier, Acar, carried the soreness of a mortal wound carving across his very existence. Silently and away from the eyes of the world, he carried the flag of his long-dead honor.

  Edwin glanced at the Brute, drooling like the fountain in front of him, almost asleep. “There will be a spot for one more atop the Searing Summit. And it will be mine. The Brute was past response, and the gnome said nothing.

  My guts told me that there was a web of schemes being woven in Borg. Plots that befooled the eyes of almost everyone. Edwin gazed far across the Eredian Gulf along the Shore of Eredia, all the way to the royal palace and the Path of the King. He knew what that light was, shining there in the pale dusk.

  “We must act before the Lantern reveals us.”

  He waved for us to leave. Then before we could move an inch, the three of us froze in our place as a cry bellowed from somewhere in the shaded streets of Borg. I could hear the pitchy voice of the crazed monk echoed …

  “THE LANTERN’S GLARE IS FADING, TOO MUCH TO REVEAL.

  ITS LIGHT TURNED TO MYTH AND OUR NIGHT BECOMES REAL”

  The Horn of Dar

  “That was not the first time I heard this cry” was the last thing I heard from Edwin before I reached the door. I turned to see him in his chair eyes wide open and in deep thought.

  Whatever is happening in Borg, I need to stay out of its path , I harshly reminded myself. At least the Dargos were still up to their reputation, I thought. Yet it was a like a breeze in the desert, quickly overrun by the blasting heat of ambition swarming from all directions.

  Sadly, Edwin was right.

  The gnome and I took our leave. On our way out, he stretched his hand for the Radimortum and took it from me, giving me a piercing look as he did so. It carried something, that look of his, besides haughty disdain, a query he didn’t voice. Although I really craved the priceless information in that book, I stayed as far as I could from the gnome.

  But as I waited for the gnome to open the door, I saw something to my left.

  Facing the sea, on a ten-foot square granite platform, stood a huge, magnificent horn. Its grayish-black ivory mimicked the mythical Horn of Dar. It was over eight feet long, with shining steel handles on the bottom and the left side to help the balance when blown. Along its top were two rings where a shaft would go through to carry it. The ivory-like material had bulges like that of a tree trunk or a muscular arm. From the orifice, appeared two hands which looked like someone trapped inside trying to get out.

  I could only imagine the powers contained within it, even as a replica — they must have been incredible. I had heard stories of such objects of power –produced and perfected by the Seven Towers of Cane –until they were banned by the Chain of Cas. Even if I had decided to withdraw from the world of men, I would definitely return for things like that. It was one of those things that defined their world yet was owned by those who deserved them the least.

  That legacy surely deserved to go in my Vault. I smiled towards Sherako as he lurked in stealth besides the horn and sent him a thought. Mark it for me . Perhaps it may satisfy you, my friend, and sway you out of Anarca’s way . I hurried to catch up with the gnome and trying as hard as I could not to draw any attention with my interest in the horn.

  When I left the roof, I could still see Sherako's movement on the walls beside me, jumping from one shadow to another. Could it be? Could he have disobeyed me? Why didn't he mark the artifact ?

  I knew that it wasn't what Sherako dragged me to Borg to find , but even if it isn’t what he is after, why didn't he mark it? I asked myself. He’d never disobeyed me before! If this isn’t the greatest treasure in Borg, and even the whole region, then what is?

  Mystified, I took one last look at the horn through the closing doors only to see something that baffled me even more. I saw a flash in the distance behind the horn on the dark horizon. It was not in the world of Talor. It was in Veil. I had seen it before. I saw the same flash when Taria died.

  Taria … I whispered in my mind , is that you ?

  I felt the world around me getting tighter; strangling me. I stayed there for too long.

  Chapter Three

  A Faint Whisper

  Sarin

  Midnight arrived as I hastily left the governor’s halls and headed for the streets. Seeing that flash of light brought back a mixture of feelings that I’d buried a century before. I hadn’t felt like that since the day I escaped the underworld.

  Even the weather was strange. The storm was getting stronger, and the sky was crowded with clouds. There were only two explanations to Sherako disobedience. One was that there was another marker, someone with higher stature than mine. Is there a Genn more powerful than me in Borg? Or is there something else I don’t see?

  The other possibility was more unlikely. Rare artifacts like that horn sometimes developed their own will and things around it tend to lead to a direction that was carefully planned by the patient artifact itself. The horn could be there on its own accord, following its own scheme, and nobody, not even the one who created it, could unlock that secret against its will.

  I needed to find a place in Borg to think things over. I knew of only one place common in any city or town I visited that provided the level of tranquility I sought: the cemetery. It was my only refuge and the closest place on Talor to Shadow End.

  I walked the streets of Borg and headed south toward the slums where the cemeteries would certainly exist. I reached the slum gates, and the half-moon buried beneath lifeless clouds kept sneaking peeks at me as I blurred across the shadows.

  I noticed the grey reflection of the once-silver marshes between the houses there. Most of these houses consisted of only one or two rooms, the majority of which were already sinking into the ground. When I passed by them, I saw that their front doors were only accessible after going down a few steps. It was a disease infested, unfortunate zone. From the windows, I saw families of servants, fishermen, farmers, sailors, laborers, soldiers, and other state employees dwelling there.

  I walked among the wretched houses built on muddy soil. My feet led me to a sorry looking gate on an even worse looking fence; an array of rotten sticks held together by a single wire in a pathetic attempt to mark the burial ground. Neither could keep anything from passing. The sign read: Borg Service Land.

  I hopped over the useless fence and climbed the first tree I found.

  I always found it funny how all trees in cemeteries resembled hags. Long spindly arms stretching sideways, skinny distorted bodies, and wild untamed hair. The place seemed to be divided into several zones. The oldest one, perhaps a couple of centuries old, was neatly organized, its tombs built with care and patience. The outer zone had skeletons carelessly piled up in pits.

  I didn’t care for the state of the cemetery. All I cared about was the peace it provided, as the dead don’t talk much. I closed my eyes, conjuring Cresh the Silent. Sherako appeared by my foot and purred as he brushed against it. I waited to receive Cresh, but instead, I just heard the sound of horses.

  I opened my eyes and looked outside the fence to see a carriage stopping in front of the cemetery. It was odd, I thought, especially for someone to visit this late at night. There were no markings on the carriage; if it was an official vehicle, it would have said so.

  My curiosity peaked as I saw that old over-embellished florid man from that carriage the day before. I remembered him and the caged, soot-covered prisoner.

  He stepped out of the carriage, scanning the area around him. Seeing that he was alone, he entered the cemetery.

  He se
emed unbothered by the broken bones and crushed skulls he stepped on as he entered the cemetery. Instead, he was just sad, and sadness beats fear every time.

  He stepped over a tomb and went deeper to the inner zone. Even in the low moonlight, he didn’t trip or doubt his next step. He knew his way around the cemetery well, I thought.

  He stopped atop a huge rock overlooking a pit.

  He paused for a moment and then started talking.

  “I did it again,” he said.

  I was startled. To whom was he speaking?

  “I am so proud of myself,” he continued, looking towards the rest of the cemetery. His tone was one of contempt.

  “Last month, I took a man’s life. I gave the orders for his execution. I did the same for many before and after, but it was that particular one. That dwarf, he was different.”

  He paused. His voice started to sound as if he was choking—overwhelmed by emotions—which again astonished me.

  But who was he talking to?

  “Those Itians are just unstoppable, inhuman. They are so cruel, unnecessarily cruel. They thrive on the cries of agony and desperate pleas for mercy. Nearly a week ago I was leading my regiment which is now part of the Lorken’s army. Norzei, as he was called, was an Itian captain, a leader of the Tirra Mortus. I don’t know how the Million Deaths appear like this, from thin air. I don’t know who the hell called them but, without warning, I saw Norzei climbing the hill towards me.”

  His features, without makeup, were like those of an old human in his late fifties with lots of scars, scars on his face and his soul. His words were broken as well.

  “He suggested —no, he ordered me to attack the walled town. He said the time for negotiation had passed and it was time for punishment. I wanted to object. After all, we just wanted the Trodons. The dwarves had something we want and if they give it willingly, there will be no need for unnecessary destruction. But, I couldn’t defy him; he reports directly to the Searing Tower. I gave the order to attack, and the rain of destruction hailed on Kavlot.

  “Not much of an army anymore, the dwarves were defeated quickly. Their leader, that dwarf Akavi, gave his life with such honor and dignity that it reminded me of what I almost came to be. He reminded me of the faithful soldier of Sidnia who I left back in Alkurk, my old self,” he mustered a wry smile. “He protected his people to his last breath, and he continued to do so until there was no spot in his body without a wound or a cut. He laid beneath me, waiting to hear the order ending his life, with a wide smile.

  He crossed his hands behind his back and added, “I know what you are thinking, and you are probably right. I am not a general, not a soldier, not even a man. I am a puppet; I am…”

  He was overwhelmed with grief, and his knees collapsed.

  I was moved by that surprising scene. I didn’t have a clue how deceiving appearances could be. I was about to jump off the tree and leave the place, respecting his privacy.

  “Sarin,” he whispered.

  I froze in my spot when I heard a ghastly voice responding, “You are… tired, Maloch.”

  “Sarin?” he repeated his question. His eyes whipped about the place, searching for the source of the voice, as did mine.

  “I remember that day, Maloch…” The ghastly female voice sounded from no apparent direction. “Do you? Do you remember what I said to you? I told you that the more you take from life, the more it takes from you. Everything has a price. I told you that you need to know where and when to stop. Life will not tell you that.”

  Maloch bowed his head. Glowering at the ground, he went on with his story, “I still can see the dwarves waving to us, trying to surrender. I still can see their white flags getting burnt by our arrows. I can see their scores running to us, unarmed, and giving in, But the Itian’s orders were swifter. They were piling up in front of the gate, yards away. And that big house we burnt to ashes…”

  He raised his head and asked, “Do you know what soldiers we found there lurking and waiting to ambush us? Do you know what did I find when I went to search its burnt remains?”

  He stood erect abruptly, alarming me and my cat, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out … a toy, a small doll, half burnt.

  He dropped to his knees again. “What monsters did we call, Sarin? What have we done? I should have listened to you. We shouldn't have gone to those caves south of Lorken. We shouldn't have gone to Itia‎( 12) Error! Reference source not found. ."

  A long silence followed. I could see shadowy arms hovering over him, and it looked as if they were caressing his shoulders.

  “You know what I brought with me to the land of the Dargos?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  “Yesssss,” she answered in her ghastly voice.

  “I left the battlefield and the broken city of Kavlot, leaving the Itian. He said he needed to interrogate the survivors about an ancient dwarven secret. I reckoned that Norzei committed that atrocious act of burning the house with children inside as a tribute to whatever dark force he follows. Before I rode away from the screams, I looked one last time at the town and saw the ‘fall’ myself. I watched as a black cyclone stretched from the sky all the way to the big house we burnt and where I found this doll. I could make out a figure dropping through it. The Itian ran to the being and welcomed the unholy arrival. It was a gift, a reward for our faithful actions. That was recognition he desired, Norzei the Itian explained to me.

  “He gave me the being and told me to bring him here. I didn’t know what else to do, so I took the soot-covered being and put him in a cart. I ran away as fast as I could. As I did, I knew I was damned.

  “Do you know who it is, the being I brought here?”

  “Yessss,” she repeated mechanically, lifelessly.

  I could swear her voice was moving closer. I started to have the uncomfortable, itchy feeling that someone was gazing at me. I took my guard and held the Whispers of Vaud firmly, my fingers wrapping around the hilt of each dagger on both sides of my belt. I saw Sherako curving his back and hissing at something behind me. I saw the branches’ shadows change position on the muddy soil. They seemed to reach for me.

  I whispered a call to Cresh the Agile. I turned to mere wind. Though Cresh did answer my call and blew me out of the cemetery, I felt her disapproval. I sensed that it would be a while till Cresh, the Wind of Veil and Duchess of Mount Aerous, answer another call of mine, especially one as urgent and dangerously exposable like that one. I did have powers uncommon to most Genn, but they were not limitless.

  With one last look, I saw the Sidnian general standing up, putting the doll back in his pocket. He turned away, heading to the gates. “I just want your forgiveness, Sarin, and I will earn it.”

  I think it was Sarin herself who was hovering around the tree at the entrance, gazing at me with white transparent eyes.

  Let the Songs Begin

  That was enough of Borg for one day , I thought, I needed to take the rest of the night off. I ran like a blur towards the mountain southwest of the city and climbed its eastern side. I jumped across the shadows, shifting back to Veil, my world of night.

  In my room, I opened the curtain to see the wind of Veil, Cresh the Restless, dancing on the hills. The moment I heard the thunder, my Twin Daggers whispered something I didn’t quite catch. It warned of a storm in Talor, the thunder. I gazed at the starlit sky and saw a shower of fine silvery dust raining across it. It was a hell of a day.

  Up there, gloom veiled a certain spot in the sky. It was where Sherako lurked when I shifted back for him. It was Borg. Despite it didn’t hinder my traveling to and from the Eredian city, what was happening in that city was obscured from all divination magic and from all Seers, even Cresh the Reaching. I dropped on the bed and closed my eyes as questions stormed my mind.

  Should I be satisfied with what I’d accomplished so far? If the Horn of Dar’s replica wasn’t the legacy I was supposed to find, then what was? I knew I’d struck a deal with Sherako the day he came out of Goresink. I would
never back down on any of the marks he chose for himself, and they were not many… but would I be pushing my luck if I accepted Anarca as a mark?

  I always knew that Sherako had more potential than it seemed, even for a Genn’s companion. He had a unique connection with the O’Lenatum. But he lured me into the greatest web of events I had ever witnessed, and its entwined threads would strangle both of us if I slipped. What does Sherako see that I don’t?

  Before I submitted to my fatigue, I thought I heard faint tunes of the Sedai. From the window, as I lay on my bed, I saw Sherako in his huge tiger form. He jumped out of the shadow-infused cottage to the grassy land around my lake. Climbing the shifting hills, he danced with Cresh like a house cat moving around something it loathed yet intrigued by. I turned away, gazing at the ceiling, and that old feeling crawled up from the pit I’d buried it in. I wished to be part of those tunes that accompanied me through the years and forever fade into them.

  A dream? I asked myself. Then I thought of the horn. Should I forget I ever saw it? And what was that flash?

  Whatever I thought I was stumbling into, I never expected what happened in the next few days when the curtains covering Borg dropped.

  During the previous days, I had trouble sleeping. But that night, Cresh the Merciful visited and it brought nothing with her, letting me sleep like a child.

  ***

  A few hours later, it was the dawn of the contest, and I shifted back to Borg.